


Nosferatu

by TheDarkLordMegatron



Series: Zine Pieces [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Human!Gladio, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Torture, M/M, Prom needs all of the hugs, Promptio Zine, vampire!Prompto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 19:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18300122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkLordMegatron/pseuds/TheDarkLordMegatron
Summary: He remembers a warm laugh and large arms around his body. He remembers feeling safe, feeling loved, and wanting it to last forever. He remembers a body curled around his own, whispering sweet nothings to him as fingers run through his hair. He remembers that face, the sharp jaw and the singular scar across one eye; the golden eyes that make him feel as though he could take on the world, so long as those eyes were waiting for him at home. He remembers it all, remembers the way the man walked, the way he dressed; he remembers everything, except for a name.





	Nosferatu

**Author's Note:**

> I can finally share my piece for the Promptio Zine @PromptioZ! The zine is free and you can find the link to download it on the Twitter!

He remembers a warm laugh and large arms around his body. He remembers feeling safe, feeling loved, and wanting it to last forever. He remembers a body curled around his own, whispering sweet nothings to him as fingers run through his hair. He remembers that face, the sharp jaw and the singular scar across one eye; the golden eyes that make him feel as though he could take on the world, so long as those eyes were waiting for him at home. He remembers it all, remembers the way the man walked, the way he dressed; he remembers everything, except for a name.

It’s there on the very tip of his tongue, so close that he can taste it but always so far out of reach. Some mornings, when the sun rises and burns his skin through the tiny hole in the roof, he opens his mouth to call a name and nothing comes save a wordless cry. As the wind tears at the meagre shelter, threatening to bury him beneath tonnes of concrete and sheet metal, he reaches a hand through the bars and tries to write a name in the dirt yet. He never manages anything more than a few illegible scribbles. It is there. He knows it is. He knows that out there, somewhere, this man is waiting for him to come home, but how can he get home when the bars burn his skin? When the unbreakable chains around his neck and wrists restrict his movement? When he’s so thirsty that some nights he can do nothing except scream himself hoarse, throwing himself against the strange metal caging that keeps him trapped? He can smell the food. It’s out there, and it’s so close, yet so far, but he wants it. If he’s lucky and the man in the white coat is in a good mood, a small bottle with red liquid is occasionally thrown in his general direction.

Once the man had thrown it too far to the left, close enough that he could touch it with a finger, yet it was too far away for him to grab it. That day he’d spent hours curled up on the floor, screaming and crying, his food close enough to see but he still  _ couldn’t get it. _ The memory alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine.

How is it that he can remember so much yet he cannot remember a single name?

He’s not sure what lies beyond the door on the other side of his prison, when the man enters or leaves, he takes great care to prevent him from seeing the outside world. There are days when he comes with a bucket and those are the days Prompto loves the most. On those days, the door is opened just wide enough that he can see the grass and bushes beyond it. If he’s incredibly lucky, the man will go out, sometimes forgetting to shut the door, and return with a second bucketm granting him a few more seconds of joy. Yes, the water is cold, and yes, his clothes stick to his skin, but he saw the grass! A few stars as well, if he laid himself down on his stomach! Those are the days he loves the most.

He remembers once that the man came with a second man. This one had strange purple hair and looked at him as though he was dangerous, which was silly. He can’t be dangerous, chained as he is, and he’s not about to touch the bars that always hurt him so much. The second man had stayed with him all day and until the next sunrise! They hadn’t spoken. Prompto had long since learnt that talking only ended in more pain, but the company was pleasant though. The purple man had even broken off another piece of the roof; this one far enough away that the sun’s rays wouldn’t hurt him, but close enough that he could see the stars at night and the clouds during the day. If he wasn’t so sure that he was meant to be quiet, he would have thanked him. Now, when he was left alone, he could lay on his back and watch the sky. He dreams of flying among the clouds, of being one of the birds that flies past occasionally, of being so free that he could go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He dreams of dancing with the stars. Of exploring other worlds and wonders if anyone lives out there, if anyone can see him. He likes to think that they can, that one day those strange people from space will come and see him, maybe even take off the chains. That would be nice. What he wouldn’t give to just be able to take them off for half an hour.

If he focuses hard enough, he can just about forget the hunger. At least until his fangs come in. He always forgets about them and always ends up cutting his lips. The man doesn’t like that.

“I can’t have broken merchandise, you stupid creature!” He hisses, but Prompto always thinks it’s a good thing because no matter what, the man comes back with a bottle and he always gets those ones.

He’s laying on his back, absently poking at his fangs, and watching the stars through the hole, when he smells it. Food! He can’t let himself get too excited--the man won’t let him eat if he’s happy--but there’s so much of it! Lots!! There must be a lot of bottles out there! And then he hears them. There’s a lot of heartbeats out there. The man must have brought friends this time. Maybe the purple man is with them? If he stays this time, Prompto promises himself that he’ll try to thank him, or at least smile. The man doesn’t have any cameras so he shouldn’t know, unless the purple man tells on him, but he doesn’t think he will. He’s too nice for that.

The heartbeats are coming closer and as much as he wants to press himself against the bars, Prompto forces himself to lay on his stomach and hide his head under his arms. Better to look like he’s sleeping; they might not hurt him if he does that. He can’t help the small squeak that comes out as the door is kicked in. Angry people! He doesn’t like angry people! The man always hurts him and doesn’t feed him when he’s angry! There are voices. Really loud, angry voices, and lots of running. Why do they have to be so loud? His stomach growls and his fangs sting. He’s hungry but he can’t move. If he moves and the man is with them, he won’t get his food tonight.it’s already been three days and his last bottle was only half-full; he needs that food tonight.

“Prompto?” A soft voice asks from nearby. He hasn’t heard a voice like that in ages. Wait…that’s his name! The man doesn’t say his name, though…is it a test? Should he answer? “Prompto?” The voice questions again, only this time a hand touches his arm and he moves. He knows he shouldn’t, knows that moving isn’t smart, but the person touched him! They can’t touch him!! So instead of letting them touch him, he throws himself into the bars on the other side of the cage, choking himself with the chain in the process. His skin sizzles as it comes into contact with the bars and he screams. Oh gods! The man is going to hurt him, going to starve him, and now he hurts from the bars! Terrified, hungry, and confused, he allows himself to sob, curling up into the smallest ball possible in an attempt to hide. Why are they doing this to him? He was good! He hadn’t done anything wrong!

The voices are shouting, there are noises outside, loud noises that he doesn’t like. More people are rushing inside, however the person who touched him has stayed still. He can hear them talking quietly to another, yet he can’t find the energy to try and listen in on the conversation. All he wants is for them to leave him alone. Why can’t they just go away? There are more footsteps, only these ones are heavy and far too close for comfort. That’s never a good thing.

“Prompto?” He knows that voice. “Prom?” Slowly he forces himself to lift his head. Oh. That’s the face. That’s the face from his dreams. The warm eyes. He doesn’t like the tears in those eyes, though. The face has always been happy and smiling; there shouldn’t be tears in his eyes. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching between the bars to touch the tears. This man is a nice man. A very nice man. Unlike the man with the white coat, this man stays still and lets him touch his face. This man smiles through his tears but makes no move to touch him. That’s nice. People touching him is never fun. “Hi babe,” the man says, only this time his voice breaks and Prompto doesn’t like that. This man shouldn’t be sad. He should be happy like he is in his dreams.

His fangs tingle again but he ignores that. The man smells like food but he’s not going to eat him. That’s stupid. If he’s lucky, they might have a bottle for him.

“Cor,” The man starts, never once taking his eyes off Prompto, though he clearly isn’t talking to him. There’s shuffling from behind him. Another man appears--perhaps he’s the one that touched him? He’s the only other one close enough to have done so. “His eyes?”

“I can see them.” 

Prompto startles, accidentally knocking his arm into the bar again. Ow! He’ll never understand why the bars, hurt but he wishes they’d stop. 

“Silver,” The second man grumbles, tapping the bar closest to him.

“Daemons don’t react to silver,” Prompto’s man mutters and he feels as though he should recognise that word. Something about it seems familiar.

“No, they don’t.” 

He quickly tunes out their conversation.t’s nothing interesting and, besides, he’d much rather focus on his man. The eyes are so much better in person than in his dreams. And his hands! They’re huge! While the men talk, Prompto reaches out to take a hand, failing to notice the pair had gone silent. There’s a leather bracelet wrapped around the man’s wrist, and his curiosity gets the better of him. He no longer cares that the man might hurt him when he gets back. Even if everyone here hurt him, he’s the happiest he’s been in ages. His dream man is here and he’s finally touching someone that doesn’t want to hurt him, although the delicious smell of food coming from him is really, really hard to ignore.

“It’s yours,” his man says softly. Prompto looks up at him in confusion. His? He doesn’t own something that nice! He doesn’t own anything really. Except the little piece of wood in his pocket that reminded him of a bird thing.

“I don’t think he recognises you, Gladio.” 

Gladio!! That’s the name! That’s the name he knows but didn’t know!

“Gladio!” He crows happily, pointedly ignoring how much his voice hurt after being quiet for so long. He doesn’t care. This is Gladio! This is him! He remembers the name!

His man laughs, though more tears are gathering in his eyes again, and he nods. “Yeah, Prom. It’s me,. He chokes on his tears and Prompto presses his face against the bars, desperately reaching out with chained hands in an attempt to comfort him. Gladio smiles and leans down to press a kiss to the back of each of his hands before gently pushing his face away from the bars. 

“I’m here,” he soothes, running one finger along Prompto’s cheek, obviously minding the new burn. It’s the first touch in as long as he can remember that doesn’t hurt. Turning his face into the warmth, Prompto smiles. The smell of food is really strong on his hands, so he supposes Gladio must have had something to eat recently. “You’re okay,” Gladio continues. “Gods, you’re really alive.”

“Gladio,” Prompto purrs, wrapping his arms around Gladio’s hand and holding it close. He doesn’t care that Gladio is probably going to be gone by the morning, just as the purple man was. He doesn’t care that he’s not going to eat for a few days and that he’s probably going to be hurt. He doesn’t care because he remembers the name. He remembers Gladio and Gladio is here. It’s the best day of his life.


End file.
